Hypnos
by ryoku1
Summary: Takaya wakes, and there is nothing but dreams.


**Hypnos**

* * *

You wake in a strange place and there is nothing to remember. The doctor says you have amnesia, and says that you do have some sort of trauma so it is all consistent. You hate him. There is no reason to hate him, but his coat is white and he talks to you as if you are stupid, so you hate him.

You sleep that day, and wake at 7:24 that evening. You don't understand why, but it seems normal. You stay wide awake the entire evening, and watch from your window as the sun rises. It disgusts you, but still feels important.

The second time you see the doctor, your hand feels empty. There should be something there to take care of this dilemma, but there is not. He asks questions. You only answer the ones that interest you, which means you answer hardly any at all. He scribbles away in his little note book and leaves the room. He speaks with the nurse outside the door, something about Apathy Syndrome. You find yourself laughing. Apathy Syndrome is certainly a laughable topic, though why, you have no idea.

You sleep that day, and wake at 8:56 that evening. But your sleeping is not restful this time. You see visions of shadows of memories. On waking, it is gone to the recesses of your mind, only to taunt you. You grapple with remembering it all night, but the night moves to fast, and there seems to be no time at all.

You watch the sunrise once more, and sleep claims you once more. You are well rested, there are no dreams.

The doctor returns in the next day, but to you he is back far to soon. He mentions something about you being moved. Relocated is the word he uses, but you know what he means. They don't know what to do with you. They've deemed you crazy, demanding of supervision. It does not surprise you, but it does anger you.

You rise from the bed, as a king would, and back hand the doctor. It's hard enough to send him staggering backwards. If you give him time to recover, he'll call for help, so you don't. He doesn't expect the kick you send to his gut, and he topples over. It's actually very easy, as you knew it would be. When he is down, you kick him again. In the head, in the gut, where ever it will hurt the most. You do hate him, so it is rational.

When you are sure he can not move again, you take his keys and his hospital ID card. You stroll out of the room. Getting out is very easy. It is a small establishment, no one suspects anything amiss.

You are free to walk the streets as you please, there will be no confinement to a room for the rest of your days. You escape to a small bar with an attic that you can stay in. The bar tender who is still cleaning from the night before simply nods and lets you in. It is a small place, you can't stand up in the attic, but it will do.

That day, you dream again and upon waking at 9:31, you remember just a little. The figures around you in the dream are figures with white coats, men of science and corruption. There are two other figures you remember, one is a vision, the other is a feeling.

The vision is red, white, small, and quiet. The vision always has a pencil; draws the future, the past, and the present. The figures in white coats do not understand, but the drawings are skilled and beautiful. The vision once gave you one, but you can't remember that very well.

The feeling is heat. Searing intense painful heat that somehow seems the norm. There is finality to the feeling; you know nothing else about it.

For that evening, you think and watch as the shadows drift and sway. You wonder if something is meant to happen. When nothing does, you are disappointed. You watch the sunrise, and sleep takes you.

This evening's dream is quite vivid. When you wake at 10:12, there is no need to grasp the dream. It simply exists.

The vision is a girl. She is a lovely thing, with long flowing hair and dead eyes. The feeling is a boy. He is small and fiery, he yells and screams, and is abused and hurt more than the others. You remember him clinging to you as his face streaks with tears. You remember telling him the world didn't care if he cried, that such a thing was useless.

The men in white coats could make you do what they wanted, you are your own master and need none of their aids. They give the girl and the boy small weapons, and tell them to hurt themselves. You feel nothing when they do so, but it doesn't really injure them, cause only a power comes from the action. It is a familiar power, one you know very well.

The dream ends there, and you have nothing else to remember. You spend the day contemplating what these dreams could mean, and watch as the sun raises when the time is right. It comes up, and you go down.

The boy is the subject of the next dream. You learn his name, but upon waking at 11:47, it slips through the creases in your mind. But you have not lost everything from that night. You remember shadows from the dream. Of power and power and power. The world spinning to your own axis as the top spins out of control and finally clatters to the ground.

In the dream, you tell the boy not to fret. Fate has a design, and it has chosen them time and time again. The boy smiles, but he continues to fret. You sleep, and he works day and night. He makes you an idol, and worships you with gunpowder and hardware.

When you watch the sunset that day, it feels like an explosion. The violent beginning of a new start with new beginnings for old disgusting filth. The sun comes up, and you sleep.

You wake at midnight, but the dream seems more like a reality than the waking. This dream is of flesh. It is not the girl, she would never give you such a thing. Instead, it is the boy. He knows no importance to his own flesh, he is an open book. You take what you want from him, and leave when you are finished. The feel of his hips as your fingers leave bruises makes you sure that the waking is not the reality. Instead, you dream of being awake, and watch as the sunset rises again.

When you do sleep again, it is more vivid this time. You take and take from him, but he never responds to you. He is cold against your flesh, and you know it is inherently wrong. The boy is not meant to be cold, never.

You wake again at midnight, and the waking does feel like reality once more. The feeling that rises inside of you is not fear, but it is of substance. You wonder what it is you really want. Do you want this boy and this girl as they are, or do you want a dream.

You watch the sunrise, and fall into sleep shortly after.

This dream is not as vivid. It feels like a cloud, something you can't see through but also a substance that can not be felt. This is a dream of a different sort entirely. The boy is young, and you must coax smiles from his thin lips, but it makes them precious. The girl draws, and sometimes she laughs and smiles. They don't fit in, but they can rely on one another, and they can rely on you. The feeling is warmth.

You wake at midnight once more, and know your answer. You ask yourself, what do you really want. The answer is simple, and when the sun rises you say your answer.

You sleep, and dream, and never wake.


End file.
